slip me the tongue. It’s because she left her litter too young and wasn’t properly socialized. I’m not her only conquest. The singer Tennille (of Captain and Tennille) was so taken by the smooth coat, the brown spot on the butt, the floppy ears, and the naturally black-lined eyelids that she bent down on one knee to make friends. It was alarming. I wanted to shout, “Get up, Tennille! Move away from the dog,” but it was too late. Tabasco had already reared back on her Jack Russell haunches, aimed, and stolen another French kiss. I apologized profusely as we were led away from Tennille’s dressing room in the Tampa State Theater. She was starring in
Victor/Victoria.
I was working next door at the smaller Tampa State Theater Annex, which doubles as a storage unit most of the year. It wasn’t the greatest week of my career, but Tabasco liked the blistering sun and the fresh scent of armadillo outside our Holiday Inn.
I’d like to say that Tabasco was named after the town in Mexico, but really she was named after the hot sauce my girlfriend sprinkled on her eggs at a roadside diner on the way to pick up our puppy. Getting a dog was her idea, and we were so in love that I would have agreed to any name she liked, from Cornflakes to Decaf. If we merely had a baby instead of a puppy we’d probably still be together. But I quickly fell under Tabasco’s spell. Instead of bringing my girlfriend flowers, I bought Tabasco a new squeaky toy every week.
I got custody after the breakup even though the dog clearly favored my girlfriend. When dogs sense fear, they may attack, but when they sense codependency, they pick you last. It’s not the worship I expected from a dog. She’s stingy with the tail-wagging, and getting a kiss from her is like pulling fangs. So when she affectionately swabs my sinus cavities, I tell myself it’s genuine, not because she wants something. Then I fix her food—half a cup twice a day, presoaked in spring water and not one kibble or biscuit more.
I wish I had somebody to control
my
meal portions. While my weight fluctuates, Tabasco’s compact form has never exceeded 13 pounds. She has the dimensions of a six-pack of beer, just small enough to slide under an airplane seat in her FAA-approved Sherpa travel bag. Some airlines offer two spaces per flight for pets small enough to remain confined under the seat for the duration of the trip—flight attendants go postal if they see a paw poking out from the blanket on your lap, trust me. No doubt they’re envious of the divorced, bankrupt former flight attendant who invented the Sherpa bag, became a millionaire overnight, and sent little dogs packing coast to coast. Tabasco and I have become versed in where to find trees and shrubs at JFK and LAX, and dog-friendly hotels in America. These seem to fall into two categories: the high-end establishment that caters to the Chihuahuas of the rich and famous or the going-out-of-business dump that will take anybody and their dog, cat, or ferret for an extra fifty bucks—in other words, the downtown Tampa hotel of our first road trip.
It was a rough road to single parenthood. Tabasco sniffed our dreary room from wall to wall and opted to spend the first night brooding under one of the twin beds. I lay awake wondering what she was thinking or if she was thinking. Was she homesick? Did she miss my apartment or my ex-girlfriend’s apartment? Or was she pining for something primal that no human could provide?
We got her from an old-fashioned country vet on a horse farm. He showed us her mom, long-legged and slim, hopping around the barn in a cast after being stomped by a horse. The dad dog was tied to a tree, all muscle and medium height like Tabasco. The vet claimed this dog enjoyed watching cartoons, which sounded cool but may have been another fabrication, like telling us Tabasco was eight weeks when she was only seven weeks. Finally, we were taken to the puppies. It’s impossible to feel like an adult at
Victor/Victoria.
I was working next door at the smaller Tampa State Theater Annex, which doubles as a storage unit most of the year. It wasn’t the greatest week of my career, but Tabasco liked the blistering sun and the fresh scent of armadillo outside our Holiday Inn.
I’d like to say that Tabasco was named after the town in Mexico, but really she was named after the hot sauce my girlfriend sprinkled on her eggs at a roadside diner on the way to pick up our puppy. Getting a dog was her idea, and we were so in love that I would have agreed to any name she liked, from Cornflakes to Decaf. If we merely had a baby instead of a puppy we’d probably still be together. But I quickly fell under Tabasco’s spell. Instead of bringing my girlfriend flowers, I bought Tabasco a new squeaky toy every week.
I got custody after the breakup even though the dog clearly favored my girlfriend. When dogs sense fear, they may attack, but when they sense codependency, they pick you last. It’s not the worship I expected from a dog. She’s stingy with the tail-wagging, and getting a kiss from her is like pulling fangs. So when she affectionately swabs my sinus cavities, I tell myself it’s genuine, not because she wants something. Then I fix her food—half a cup twice a day, presoaked in spring water and not one kibble or biscuit more.
I wish I had somebody to control
my
meal portions. While my weight fluctuates, Tabasco’s compact form has never exceeded 13 pounds. She has the dimensions of a six-pack of beer, just small enough to slide under an airplane seat in her FAA-approved Sherpa travel bag. Some airlines offer two spaces per flight for pets small enough to remain confined under the seat for the duration of the trip—flight attendants go postal if they see a paw poking out from the blanket on your lap, trust me. No doubt they’re envious of the divorced, bankrupt former flight attendant who invented the Sherpa bag, became a millionaire overnight, and sent little dogs packing coast to coast. Tabasco and I have become versed in where to find trees and shrubs at JFK and LAX, and dog-friendly hotels in America. These seem to fall into two categories: the high-end establishment that caters to the Chihuahuas of the rich and famous or the going-out-of-business dump that will take anybody and their dog, cat, or ferret for an extra fifty bucks—in other words, the downtown Tampa hotel of our first road trip.
It was a rough road to single parenthood. Tabasco sniffed our dreary room from wall to wall and opted to spend the first night brooding under one of the twin beds. I lay awake wondering what she was thinking or if she was thinking. Was she homesick? Did she miss my apartment or my ex-girlfriend’s apartment? Or was she pining for something primal that no human could provide?
We got her from an old-fashioned country vet on a horse farm. He showed us her mom, long-legged and slim, hopping around the barn in a cast after being stomped by a horse. The dad dog was tied to a tree, all muscle and medium height like Tabasco. The vet claimed this dog enjoyed watching cartoons, which sounded cool but may have been another fabrication, like telling us Tabasco was eight weeks when she was only seven weeks. Finally, we were taken to the puppies. It’s impossible to feel like an adult at
Similar Books
